After a dreary supper in the Grand Saloon, having to explain to the other diners that his secretary felt indisposed, Matt returned to his stateroom. As his next adventure on this Continental junket, he needed to dress formally for the mid-voyage party on B deck. He found that, with a little touching up—a sleek black cummerbund, a carnation from the ship’s florist, and an added dash of hair pomade—he could go in his dinner jacket. He would look presentable, whatever the state of affairs with his escort.
Matt learned with relief that Alma would be going. He’d accepted the invitation for them both, but that was before her glum preoccupied spell and their ensuing argument. Still, he wasn’t sure until he found her primping and grooming in the bedroom.
As ever, she required more serious wardrobe enhancements, whether for disguise or to blend in with the ritzy Broadway set in the impresario Charles Frohman’s suite. In light of her recent moodiness, Matt had thought she might decide to stay in the cabin and avoid the risk of exposure. But now she seemed more intent than ever on going.
As Alma renewed her lipstick, the bedroom door stood open. Matt discreetly glimpsed her transformation in the mirror—in her new evening gown, a marvel of black Chantilly lace, black satin and black glass beads. Much had changed between them since his unannounced absence the previous night. She was still civil to him, even patient, but what had become of their romantic spark? Perhaps it was only the element of trust that was gone.
Well, he still had his job to perform and whole new worlds to conquer. To think of them becoming lovers had probably been unrealistic, anyway. Or at least unwise, in the uncertainties of wartime—and a needless risk in view of the chancy business prospect they were engaged in, his planned journalistic exposé.
But they could still try to get along, rather than spoil the evening—or the whole voyage—any worse than it had already been spoiled.
“Everything all right, then?” he asked through the doorway in this damnable clipped English manner that seemed to come over him now, whenever he addressed her.
“I think so,” she answered into the mirror, just as sparsely. And then, after a pause, she dug deeper: “As long as you can tell me that what you did last night, when you were gone…it had nothing to do with me and my troubles. Big Jim, the muster list or the money, nothing like that.”
“No, not at all,” he assured her, surprised by the question. “Those are serious matters that we can work on together. I wouldn’t make a move on that without your okay.”
Feeling a little of the old closeness, he dared to appraise her as she turned from the mirror. “Looks like you’ve been spending some of Jim’s ill-gotten gains.”
He spoke in reference to her new silver choker studded with tiny gems. It circled her throat neatly, set off by her darkened hair and the splendid black gown.
“Just a trifle from the gift shop,” she said. “Diamonds being a girl’s best friend, after all.” She unboxed a new pair of accessories, long black gloves, and began drawing them onto her bare arms up to the elbow. “If that canvas money bag should disappear, I won’t have lost it all.” She posed before the mirror, oblivious to his gaze.
“An investment, you mean.” He averted his eyes from the taunting vision in the boudoir, now so painfully remote. “And a wise one, I’d say.” He adjusted his bowtie in his own tiny mirror. “You don’t feel bad about spending Jim’s money?”
“If he ever finds me, he can have it all back. This, too,” she added, touching the jewels at her neck, “as long as it means I’ve seen the last of him.”
Matt decided to make a bid for her goodwill. “If it ever comes to real, imminent danger, I hope I can be of help to you.”
“Well, I hope I’ll never be needing it.”
Feeling the rebuff, he couldn’t help but try one last time. “Say, Alma, you never did tell me, what made you look for us so early in the morning…or was it Winnie who got up? We thought sure you’d turned in for the night.”
She stayed serene, avoiding his gaze and taking up her black knitted wrap from the sofa. “Just a restless night at sea,” she said. “As I recall, there was a lot of rolling and tossing going on.”
She turned, waiting calmly for him to open the door as he puzzled over her remark.
Out on deck as agreed, they met up with Winnie and Flash. The assistant cut a trim figure in his tux, though his bright red smudge of hair could never really look formal. To balance it, the carnation he wore was stunning pink. Winnie, with Alma’s help, had augmented her wardrobe with her friend’s cleverly altered pink gown. Shortened with draped pleats below the knees, it looked très vogue. It should certainly pass in a light-hearted gathering of the Broadway theater set…even under the white nurse jacket that she’d improvised as a wrap.
“What a delightful couple,” Alma said brightly. “Just look, the all-American boy and the girl in uniform!”
“This way to the Regal Suites,” Matt said, sizing up the scene as he led them forward. “But remember, don’t be too dazzled by the toffs and entertainers, or too muddled by strong drink. For me it’s a news beat. I need all of you as my eyes and ears, so stay alert.”
The event was already spilling out of Frohman’s rooms onto the covered Promenade Deck. Small groups of elegant dressers huddled together in the shadows, and waiters circled with trays of drink and canapés. The light was masked by canvas blackout curtains rigged outside the promenade, billowing gently in the night breeze. From within the glowing rooms issued the strains of a live band making a very credible effort at ragtime. In all, it was a magnetic scene that might have graced an Upper East Side penthouse, or one of New York’s finer restaurants.
The Cunard steward who’d been posted to intercept party crashers let them pass with barely a nod. The four moved onward into the radiance that poured forth from the open doors and casement windows of the grand suite.
The first to greet them was their first-night dinner companion, the designer and gadabout Oliver Bernard. Just emerging from the crowded rooms, he was obviously a bit ahead of them on the gaiety and drink.
“Well, if it isn’t our own war correspondent, Mr. Vane…Matt, is it? You’re wise to come; you’ll find plenty of warfare going on here between these Broadway folk.”
“Good to know, Ollie,” Matt said, shaking hands. “It’s a fine thing to be needed.”
Releasing Matt’s hand, Bernard turned to the others.
“Ah, Miss Alma, the intrepid secretary, looking delightful as usual!” He didn’t shake her black-gloved hand, but snatched it up and pressed it to his thinly mustached lips, while she looked on amused.
“And here’s Flash—without his camera, I see,” Ollie said, briefly clasping the young reporter’s hand.
Then he seized Winnie’s white-gloved hand and kissed it. “But who is this lovely young nurse?”
“Miss Winifred Dexter, from Concord,” she said, withdrawing her hand from his fond clutch. “Winnie to you, Ollie.”
“Well, Nurse Winnie,” he said, winking, “it’s still a bit early for your services. But don’t worry, the patients should be lining up by ten or so.”
He turned to the others. “Here, come on in, all of you! I just stepped out for some air, but it’s almost as crowded outside.” He led them back through the bright doorway.
“This is one of the ship’s two Regal Suites,” Ollie said. Acting as tour guide, he pointed out the high mahogany ceilings and carved moldings in the spacious rooms. “The other suite belongs to Alf Vanderbilt, but he’s here with us tonight.”
He nodded toward the tall, handsome tycoon across the parlor, who was speaking to a petite, delicately featured woman in loose-cut chenille. Amid the cheerful hubbub, it was possible to make out that the pair conversed in French.
“I recognize her, too!” Winnie said. “That’s Rita Jolivet, the actress. She’s been in the entertainment pages.” She turned excitedly to her escort. “Flash, I’ll bet you’d love to have your camera here!”
Ollie said, “Rita’s returning from her American tour, headed for her London opening.”
He nodded his head in the direction of a tall, stately young woman talking to a thick-set older gentleman. “You’ve probably seen Josephine Brandell in the playbills too—or in the press, if your paper covers the Great White Way. She’s with our host, Charles Frohman. Come on over and I’ll introduce you.”
Matt and the others followed Oliver, who strode fearlessly up to the Broadway producer. Frohman, a jovial froggy-faced man, finished speaking to the actress and pivoted on his cane. “Hello, Ollie,” he said. “I meant to greet you earlier but was called off to duty…and a very pleasant duty at that. Have you met Miss Brandell, the star of plays and operas on both sides of the Atlantic? I can’t claim to have discovered her, since she was already starring in Come Over Here when I first met her in London. Josephine, this is Oliver Bernard, a top-notch set designer fresh from his latest stint in Boston.”
“Fresh is the word, I think.” The smiling actress gave Ollie her hand to kiss, and Frohman hurried him along by saying, “I see you’ve rounded up some of my guests. Is this fellow the journalist you were telling me about?”
“Yes,” Ollie said, bobbing up for air. “Mr. Matthew Vane of the Daily Inquisitor. And this is Miss Alma Brady, his secretary and traveling companion,” he added as the producer shook hands perfunctorily from the anchor of his cane. “Here is his photographer—we call him Flash—and Miss Winifred Dexter of Concord, New Hampshire.”
“Oh, Mr. Frohman,” Winnie gushed. “I’ve seen some of your plays. Peter Pan was wonderful!”
“Call me C.F.,” Frohman said. “Yes, it was a dandy. Maybe we’ll find another one like it on this trip to London. But I doubt it—successes like that come along once in a lifetime.”
“Mr. Vane,” Josephine Brandell said as she clasped Matt’s hand, “I’m told you’re a war correspondent, so perhaps you can help me. I’m concerned about this German warning that was printed, and that we’re heading into a war zone. When I try to discuss it, everyone says it’s only a bluff. They treat me as if I’m nothing but a silly little girl.” She flashed a reproachful glance at Frohman and turned back to Matt. “Do you think this threat is just a hollow bluff?”
Matt considered carefully. “Well,” he said at last, “my newspaper wasn’t given the advertisement, so I didn’t have a chance to check it out. But it did come from the German Foreign Office.”
His lovely questioner had let her hand remain in his as they spoke, and he held it gently. “In a poker game, you never know if it’s a bluff until some other player calls it. In this game the stakes are high.” He glanced around them to indicate the whole spacious room and its glittering guests. “But I’d say, someone in very high places has decided to call the German bluff. I’d like to know just who, but the cards may tell.” Finishing, he returned Josephine’s earnest gaze.
“Thank you,” the actress said after a moment, squeezing his hand warmly and releasing it. “Thank you for taking me seriously.”
“Well, now, Jo, don’t be too hard on C.F. and the rest of us,” Ollie put in to lighten the moment. “Frohman here doesn’t take anybody seriously. A reporter on the dock asked C.F. if he was afraid of the U-boats, and he said, No, in his business, he’s only afraid of the I.O.U’s.”
“Well, really,” Winnie gaily said, “if he was frightened of submarines, he could have taken passage on a neutral American ship. I heard that Isadora Duncan and her dance troupe were just setting out for England on the SS New York, along with a lot of other show business people, the same Saturday we sailed. Didn’t you want to cross with them, Mr. Frohman?”
The producer turned to her with a pained but patient look. “As I told Jerry—my good friend Jerome Kern, the composer, who is supposed to be here with us—when I consider some of the great stars I’ve had to deal with, mere submarines make me smile.”
As the flutter of laughter subsided, Ollie asked, “What about you, Nurse Winnie? Since you’re on board, I take it you’re not afraid of the Germans and their torpedoes?”
“I wouldn’t do them the honor of changing ships,” Winnie declared with an indignant toss of her head. “Anyway, I’m headed straight for the war front…as we all are, all four of us and my other nurse friends…so it wouldn’t have occurred to me to pick the safest way. If I wanted safety so badly, I’d be staying home!”
“Well, if you’re going across to serve as a nurse,” Frohman said, taking up his role as host, “I know just the person you should talk to. Madame Marie de Page, the Belgian envoy, is here at our little soirée. She’s been lecturing in the USA and raising money for the Red Cross relief effort…a wonderful speaker, very passionate.”
He gazed around the suite, leaning on his cane. “So, gentlemen, have your wallets ready. Ollie, you’d recognize her, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh yes, C.F. I just saw her in the other room.”
“Very sorry, Miss Winnie,” Frohman added. “I’d introduce you to her myself, but I have to stay put and take care of my wife.” He held up his bronze-headed cane to show them. “Here she is. We’ve been inseparable ever since I fell head-over-heels in 1912, down my front porch steps.”
“Don’t worry, you poor dear,” Winnie said, patting the elder man’s hand. “We’ll go by ourselves and find Madame de Page. I so wanted to hear her speak back home!”
Matt thanked their host, and Alma spoke up, finally breaking her discreet silence. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Frohman,” she told him. “It’s been wonderful meeting you. And you too, Miss Brandell.”
Ollie again led them off through the fashionable crowd into the suite’s private dining room, paneled in rich dark teak and lit by a gilded chandelier. As a reporter, Matt felt satisfied just to tag along and let this glib Broadway insider do his work for him.
Two stately ladies stood talking near the punchbowl, and as the little company approached, the smaller, darker-haired one turned to acknowledge their presence.
“Madame de Page, isn’t it?” Ollie saluted her, leading the way. “Charlie Frohman sends us over. I’m Oliver Bernard, a play writer and designer, heading back to England to enlist. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Accepting the Belgian woman’s hand, he kissed it elegantly and then introduced the others, one by one. “My American friends here also want very much to meet you.”
“Oh, and one of you at least is a nurse!” the Belgian said. “How delightful, that so many Americans have such a great concern for the sorrows of the world.”
“Yes, I guess it’s true,” Winnie said. “There are, uh, four of us on board from the United Nursing Service League. Our headmistress is Hildegard Krauss.”
“Oh yes, I know the name. Tell her and your other friends that I would love to meet them all. You’ve heard about my appeal, as special envoy from my country?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Winnie said. “My parents sent in a donation, but I was dying to see you when you were lecturing in the States. It’s just terrible what those brutish Huns have done to poor little Belgium.”
“Thank you…but of course, there is suffering on both sides. If you come to Brussels, I would like to show you our clinic.”
Reaching into her tiny handbag, she gave Winnie a calling card. “My husband, Antoine, is Surgeon General of the Belgian Army. And we have a British nurse there, Edith Cavell, who is doing marvelous things,” she added with a glance to Oliver.
“Oh, I read about Nurse Cavell too,” Winnie said eagerly, slipping the card into her jacket pocket. “We don’t know yet where we’ll be stationed, but I’d love to come.”
The taller woman standing beside the envoy came forward and shook Winnie’s hand. “Hello, I’m Lady Margaret Mackworth. It’s fine to see women stepping forth and taking a role internationally. You Americans have been leaders in some ways, but we in England are trying to do our part.”
Ollie was first to react. “Lady Mackworth, the famous suffragette! Most delighted…”
He reached forward, but the aristocrat swiftly drew back her hand rather than have it kissed.
“Most honored to meet you, Milady,” Ollie ended with an impromptu bow. “May I ask if your husband Sir Humphrey is with us on this voyage?”
“No,” the lady said with dignity. “I am traveling with my father, who has been looking after his coal interests in America. We were advised by friends at the Waldorf to consider taking a neutral ship,” she added, “but David didn’t particularly care to change flags. I personally believe…like you, Miss Dexter…that women shouldn’t shrink from danger in these times. If we are to win acceptance,” she declared, flashing affirmative glances to the other women, “we must be bold.”
“I, too, believe that women should be accepted in the world of men,” Madame de Page said. “But we also have our special strength, which is nurturing and caring for the weak. That is one way, besides bravery, that we can make our influence felt.”
“But Marie, my dear,” Lady Margaret protested, “if you are saying, ‘The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world,’ I must disagree with you.”
“No, Margaret, I only mean that there is some further skill and sensitivity that we can bring to the struggle.…”
With that, the two women were back in their earnest conversation, and the others soon moved on. Ollie observed with relish, “Apparently Lady Mackworth is quite decent to talk to, when she’s not stuffing firebombs into letterboxes.”
“Oh, I heard about that,” Winnie said. “To burn up the mail in England, as a protest to win women the vote! Is she really the one?” she added with a speculative look in her eye. “And she was released after only five days?”
“Yes, after staging a hunger strike in the jail.”
“Now, Win, don’t be picking up too many foreign ideas.” Flash placed a protective arm around his sweetheart. “I don’t want to have to print your brand new biography piece on the crime pages.”
Both reporters in the party had been fairly silent during the introductions, testing the waters, watching and listening. But the levity of the group, and the champagne dispensed from trays by roving waiters, were having an effect. Now the four agreed to split up and mingle separately. Flash was content to stick with Winnie, and Alma with Ollie. After a moment’s uncertainty, Matt decided to trust them and struck out on his own.
He soon recognized a face from the news wire, standing bearded and distinguished under a dark blue sea captain’s hat. It was Commander J. Foster Stackhouse, the British polar explorer who’d been lecturing in America to raise money for an Antarctic expedition. Matt joined him in conversation with two others, including Staff Captain Anderson, white-clad in his immaculate Cunard uniform. The fourth man in their group was diminutive and Continental-looking, with a glossy black bowler topping off his dinner suit. He turned out to be an American, the novelist and playwright Justus Miles Forman.
“Do you think we’ll be seeing Captain Turner at this affair?” Matt asked after introducing himself.
“The real captain, you mean?” Captain Anderson good-naturedly said. “No, he keeps himself busy with petty details like running the ship. But he leaves these important social functions to me.”
“I don’t blame him for laying low,” Stackhouse said. “With the war on, and with all these worries about enemy action, it must be hard dealing with passengers’ fears–not like the old days, when all we thought about was racing across the Atlantic and winning the Blue Riband prize for best speed.”
“And with the speed came all this luxury, don’t forget.” Captain Anderson nodded at the splendor around them. “The Germans and Anglo-Americans have always tried to best each another in grandeur and comfort.”
Matt asked, “Who holds the Blue Riband now, by the way, Captain? I suppose the Titanic would have, but did she ever officially make the list?”
“No,” the staff captain said. “She was White Star Lines’ one effort to beat Cunard, but she tripped coming out of the gate. The record holder is, or was, our sister ship Mauretania…at least until the war came, and she was drafted into the Royal Navy. Before that it was Lusitania, and before her, the Deutschland and Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse…oh, and Kronprinz Wilhelm too, in 1909.”
“Another war draftee,” the writer Forman observed. “His ships are on the front lines, even if Der Kaiser himself isn’t. How many British merchant ships did the Crown Prince Willie catch and scuttle, anyway, steaming around the Atlantic as an armed commerce raider? We were reading about two or three a month going down for a while there.”
“Fourteen,” Captain Anderson said, “until she was interned last month in Chesapeake Bay. But our Lusi here—” he thumped his heel against the polished parquet deck beneath them—“she could do much better than that if she were just given the chance.” He winked at Matt to show that his wistful tone was in jest.
The remark caused Matt to reflect. Here he was with the international set, the globetrotters. These three men were all influential, all newsworthy. Yet could any of them affect destiny, war, or even the course of this ship? They spoke like bettors at a horse race, but who were the fixers? Where were the decisions really made, the clashes and alliances? Was it by great financiers, the Morgans, Rockefellers and Rothschilds? Or was it in some circle even higher?
“The shipbuilding contest,” Justus Miles Forman was saying, “was about more than luxury and speed. While the ocean liners raced, British and German shipyards have been working overtime to build heavier-armed battleships, dreadnoughts, the new submarine-destroyers too, and now battlecruisers. This fight has been a long time in the making.”
“It was the Kaiser’s love of big ships that did it,” Anderson said.
“And his healthy German appetite for colonies and warm-water ports,” Commander Stackhouse added.
“Why, yes,” Forman mischievously put in, “colliding with jolly old England’s divine right to control the seven seas and her manifest destiny to rule a global empire.”
In spite of his small size, the writer’s Continental manner and self-assured speech gave him an air of equality to the two distinguished, uniformed sea-captains. His pert black bowler seemed more than a match for their glossy visored uniform caps.
Turning to the novelist, Matt said, “You wrote a play that dealt with the issue of war neutrality…The Hyphen, wasn’t it called? Charlie Frohman produced it on Broadway.”
“Yes,” the author said. “An utter failure, alas! It dealt with divided loyalties and the dilemma of the hyphenated Americans…German-Americans, Irish-Americans, the ones who aren’t quite accepted. Unfortunately, the just-plain-Americans didn’t pay much attention.”
Captain Stackhouse asked, “Do you carry around a hyphen of your own?”
“Far too many, I’m afraid,” Miles admitted with a smile. “After crossing over so often on your fine ship, I love France, I love England, I even love Germany. I simply adore Denmark and Belgium, Spain and Austria, all the cozy little corners of Europe. I love America too, my homeland. So I’ve signed on to be a foreign correspondent, to warn my Yankee kinsmen, our naïve, native innocents abroad, about the perils of our modern world. But I dread seeing what this war has done to Europe.”
“Do you have an assignment to cover the front?” Matt asked.
“Yes, from the New York Times. Exclusive, of course, but I do share stories.”
“We’ll be brothers-in-arms, then, Miles.” Matt slapped the smaller man on the back, taking care to do it lightly. “I’m going over for the Daily Inquisitor.”
“Sounds to me like you two will be competitors,” Stackhouse said. “Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work, vying to get all the news in print?”
“Well then, Commander,” Matt responded, “how about a scoop for us both? Are the plans final yet for your seven-year Antarctic voyage? Or is the war going to postpone it? Has your ship the Discovery been drafted by the Royal Navy?”
“No, not as yet,” Stackhouse said. “This war has definitely raised difficulties, though. It was the main reason for my fundraising trip to your country, with money so scarce in Europe. And my crew has suffered sad casualties…losing our chief surveyor Lord Congleton, late of the Grenadier Guards, was a dreadful blow.
“But we’ll find someone to fill his berth, and our other volunteers may soon be released from military duty for this vital mission.
“It’s quite an undertaking,” the visionary seafarer went on, “and not merely a voyage of Antarctic exploration. Most of our time will be spent charting sea routes and maritime hazards off South America and in the South Pacific, as well as studying land forms and native peoples. We can leave our anthropologists on some of those remote islands for months at a time, and then return to pick them up, along with their findings. And our round-the-world trip will take us into the Atlantic, to finally chart the Azores and other sea zones, even to the site of the Titanic sinking.”
“Really, Commander?” Captain Anderson asked, while Matt scribbled busily in the notebook he’d produced from his cummerbund. “Is it true that you believe the Titanic may have struck a rock in mid-Atlantic?”
“Not a rock, no,” Stackhouse explained, “but an iceberg grounded upon a rock. An undersea mountain, perhaps.” He stroked his gray beard and nodded significantly. “If such a recurrent hazard to navigation exists, rest assured that we’ll find and chart it.”
* * *
While the men mingled, Alma found herself in one of the groups in the dining room. Here she was without Matt or her close friends, but in lively company. And in Ollie’s ebullient and somewhat drunken presence, she didn’t feel like the target of strange men. Yet there was plenty of distraction. The Roycrofter commune leader Elbert Hubbard, invited or not, had appeared in his full Quaker regalia and been accepted, floppy hat and all, among the fashionable set.
“I still say we should join up and end this thing right away,” Hubbard was saying of the European War. “Teddy and his Rough Riders could thump those goose-stepping Krauts in a week. The Brits and Franks can use a kick in the pants too, a good example of Yankee know-how.”
“Do you really think the Americans would wish to join a war?” the French actress Rita Jolivet asked. “President Wilson and your Secretary of State, M’sieur William Jennings Bryan, are peace advocates. They have kept America out of the war.”
“Bryan’s just an old sissy,” Hubbard said, “and Wilson’s a college professor. Do you know what the problem is with college professors? They all have two hands—” he held up his big craftsman’s paws—“so they’re always saying, ‘on the one hand this, but on the other hand, that.’ They can never decide.” After waiting out the flurry of laughs, he added, “As for the American people, they know what to do better than any politician.”
Oliver Bernard said, “Moving a great country like America to war, though…that will take time, and a lot of production.”
“What, you mean war production?” Hubbard asked. “America’s output of armaments and provisions can more than match any European country.”
“I don’t doubt that,” the stage designer said. “You’re already producing plenty for the Allies. But I mean theatrical productions, grand openings! Big, lavish affairs, with songs and dance numbers that sway the public and get them marching.” The scrawny Englishman raised his arms half-drunkenly. “Pretty girls with guns, in brief costumes, dancing on the deck of a battleship! That will get your young men charged up to enlist! If you want to have a war, especially in a democracy like yours, you’ve got to first get the public behind it…get some war spirit going, strike up the band!” His ending bow drew applause from the onlookers.
Only momentarily upstaged, Hubbard replied, “Nonsense! America is ready to fight right now. If you want to know more about it, read my essay on Der Kaiser.” He drew a handful of booklets from his wide-lapelled coat and handed some out. “Here, listen to this.” He read from one: “If you will examine the present war situation carefully, you will find it stamped and stenciled, ‘Made in Germany.’” He closed the book. “The war is theirs. America’s job is to help end it.”
“Well, Elbert, if it takes you some time, don’t worry,” Ollie blandly assured him. “This war is firmly established, and it isn’t going anywhere. It’ll still be there when you Yanks finally arrive.”
Drawn in by the commotion, Flash and Winnie rejoined the group. Alma, who as yet had spoken little, edged over to them to discuss something that had been bothering her.
“I’m trying to watch and listen, and not be conspicuous,” she said. “But there’s a man here who’s been looking at me. I don’t know if he thinks he recognizes me, but I can’t place him. Don’t look now, he’s right over there.”
She indicated a slight, distinguished man in a Van Dyke beard.
After a leisurely survey, Flash laughed softly. “No worries about him, I’d say. That’s the Irish art connoisseur, Hugh Lane, who’s been in the papers lately. He’s been in the States buying back old Rembrandt and Rubens masterpieces to take home, cheap…it seems they’re too highbrow or racy for our provincial American tastes. He’s probably just enjoying the scenery,” he added with a wink to the ladies.
“Oh, Sir Hugh Lane!” Winnie gasped, suddenly excited. “Alma, my dear, haven’t you read about him?” She moved closer to speak in her friend’s ear, the champagne sweet on her breath.
“To help support the Red Cross, he’s offered to pay ten thousand pounds for a painting to be done by the famous American artist, John Singer Sargent. It’s to be a portrait, a female, but he hasn’t yet chosen the right woman to pose for it.” She self-consciously reset her nurse cap on her head.
“Alma,” she went on, “he’s probably considering you! You should go over and talk to him. See there, he’s looking our way again!”
“Oh no, that’s not what I need right now!” Alma turned her back on the keen-eyed Irishman. “I’m supposed to be in hiding, remember? What if Jim should see a painting of me? He’d probably buy it for top dollar and then shoot it full of holes!” She shivered. “What am I even doing at a party? Let’s get out of this room.”
“Nonsense,” Winnie said with a wink to Flash. “All you need is a little more to drink…here,” she added, grabbing two flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.
The three of them edged away from Ollie and Elbert, who were still playing off one another like expert vaudevillians. They found Matt in the parlor of the lavish suite. He was standing by Frohman, who had settled into a plush chair to give his cane a rest. As they approached, their host smiled up at them.
“Well, my young friends, are you enjoying our little salon?”
“Yes indeed, C.F.,” Flash answered. “I’d say it’s every bit as good as one of your stage shows.”
“Well, I wish I could circulate more freely and enjoy it. But my better half here is a harsh mistress.” Frohman spoke with a rueful smile, tapping his stick on the polished hardwood floor.
Matt said, “Our kind host was just telling me about a problem he has. He’s short a singer.”
“Oh my, you didn’t volunteer our Alma here, did you?” Winnie blurted out with an air of mischievous and slightly tipsy innocence. “She won’t like that one bit…being so talented, but shy.” She covered her mouth as if realizing she’d spoken out of turn. “Sorry,” she murmured aside to Alma’s urgent look. “Too much bubbly, I think.”
“I didn’t suggest anything,” Matt said to Alma, obviously anxious to cover himself. “Anyway,” he added, “it shouldn’t be hard to find talent in this Broadway bunch.”
“Actually,” Frohman said, “it’s a little touchy dealing with these stars. When they’re together socially, they’d rather stand back and kibitz somebody else. Are you saying this lovely lady of yours can sing? Do you read music, my dear?”
“I’m not saying it,” Matt hastily said as Alma felt herself blushing. She was suddenly light-headed, too, from this sudden attention. Or was it the drink?
“Well, I can tell she has a voice, even from the very little she’s said tonight.” Frohman turned back to Alma. “I’m sorry, my dear, it shouldn’t have been a problem to begin with. My friend Jerry Kern–you know, the young Broadway songwriter–is supposed to be here with us. He was going to sing and perform at the piano for this party, so I brought the set of sheet music to his latest hit and gave it to the band.” He reached into the chair beside him and drew out a music folio.
“But Jerry didn’t make it…he sent me a radio telegram apologizing. It said he’d overslept and missed the boat, after staying out all night at a party singing and playing. So far, I haven’t been able to line up a replacement.”
“Coming from you, C.F.,” Flash said, “it ought to be a command performance for any of these actors.”
“Well, yes…but the stars,” Frohman lamented, “the temperamental stars…”
Alma spoke up in desperation, looking around the room. “What about Josephine Brandell, the opera singer? If they’re afraid of being compared to anyone, it’s her.”
“I tried.” Frohman shook his head sadly. “She’s saving her voice, she said. She may be too worried about the war, or a bit seasick. She’s gone back to her cabin.” He pressed Alma. “If I could just prevail on you to look at this…?” He held out the printed song sheet.
“I’m not really that good, and my voice isn’t in condition,” Alma protested, sipping champagne to moisten her throat.
“Methinks the lady protest-eth too much,” Flash mischievously said. “I’ve heard her belt one out when she thought nobody was around. She’s dynamite.”
“You can practice in the spare bedroom if you like,” Frohman urged her. “It’s Jerry’s best tune so far, really something special. They Didn’t Believe Me, it’s called.” He thrust the folio into Alma’s hand. “I put him to work polishing up some of my British import musicals, and he’s transformed them. This song’s more free-form and dramatic than the usual show stuff. A male part, written as a duet, so you’ll have to tinker with the lyrics.”
“I’ve heard it performed. It’s lovely.” Alma’s reluctance as she looked over the music was shot through by a sudden yearning, fueled too by that last sip of champagne. “I do feel that I owe you something for showing us all such a wonderful time. If you really think…”
And so it was arranged. Winnie hurried Alma off to the bedroom to practice, the two of them clasping hands in excitement.
* * *
Matt carried Frohman’s copies of sheet music over to the bandleader and the piano player. He felt a thrill of stage fright himself for Alma, worrying less for fear of exposure than for how the experience might affect her after her recent distemper. But then, you had to take chances in this life. He hoped the alcohol might smooth over the risks and expectations, both for Alma and her cosmopolitan audience.
He rejoined Flash to watch and wait. Around them flowed the chatter and glitter of the social scene—a last, carefree remnant of the peacetime world they were so rapidly leaving behind. Or so it seemed to his reporter’s eye, only slightly sentimental after two drinks.
When it came time and the giddy, slightly tipsy girls returned, Charles Frohman stood up. He tapped his cane sharply against the underside of a table, waiting for the local hubbub to subside. Alma stood by, flushed and alert.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the impresario said, “May I introduce to all of you an unknown but talented performer, Miss Alma Brady. Tonight she’s consented to sing for us one of Jerome Kern’s latest hits from Broadway. He sends deep regrets that he can’t be here to accompany her, but I hope you’ll be kind to our guest and show her your appreciation.” Amid the polite round of clapping, he signaled to the orchestra.
The band struck up a gentle introduction, and Alma stepped to the front with the poise of a trained singer.
“Don’t know how it happened, quite. Must have been the summer night…”
She sang simply and beautifully with almost no hesitation, holding the sheet music before her. The partygoers remained silent, and only faint chatter came in from the other rooms. The atmosphere was one of subdued appraisal of this brash newcomer.
“Your lips, your eyes, your curly hair, are in class beyond compare…”
“Your girl’s a natural,” Flash murmured in Matt’s ear. The youth kept his arm snug around Winnie, who beamed with pride.
About the room, murmured remarks and conversation resumed, signaling acceptance and perhaps relief. But when the song’s already familiar refrain swelled forth, with Alma’s voice following, it brought a newly attentive hush.
“And when I told them how wonderful you are…”
The small band’s music rose heroically, and the singer’s voice soared above it like a bird caught in a sudden tempest, arching over wind-driven trees to find a perch.
“They wouldn’t believe me, they’ll never believe me, that from this great big world you’ve chosen me.”
She sang through the first verse and the second with growing confidence. As she finished, the applause from the cultivated crowd was genuine and spontaneous.
A success, no denying it! Alma looked radiant, her wide-eyed gaze roving the room and lingering on Matt—or so it seemed to him as he vigorously applauded.
Then someone shouted for an encore. Instead, the singer fled the limelight into the arms of Charles Frohman, who gave her a congratulatory hug and a peck on the cheek.
“What a joy to catch them on the brink of success,” he remarked to Matt as he handed her over. “Before they become great stars.”
Matt was all congratulation, bolstering her as well-wishers came by. But after her triumph, Alma couldn’t stay long at the party. There were too many interested stares, too many questions. At her earnest entreaty, Matt found their coats and swept her away. He told Flash and Winnie to stay at Frohman’s as long as they liked–advice that the younger couple received with a mutual wink, as the other two headed out on a moonlight walk.
As they went, Alma clung close. It gave Matt reason to believe that the Atlantic’s restless tides had shifted once again, this time in his favor. Well apart from the rest, he took Alma into his arms and experienced something he hadn’t known from her as yet—earnest, eager passion in her kiss.
The two lingered in the deepest shadows of the promenade. Drawn together in a tight embrace, they said very little before returning to their stateroom.
The most penetrating stare that followed them was from one of the ship’s stewards standing party-watch to starboard—a compact, sandy-haired man who nodded in quiet satisfaction.
* * *
Black satin gleamed and diamonds glittered. Seen against Alma’s soft, pale skin, her red lips and raven locks overwhelmed Matt’s senses. As their faces brushed, her warm nearness was a medley of pleasure and fascination. The drawing room’s single dim lamp set off the beauty of her upturned face.
Those black-gloved hands fumbled at her tight diamond choker and flung it aside, offering up her smooth neck for him to kiss. Still the satin evening gown was in the way. She arched her back against the lounge and let him reach behind. Loosening the clasp, he peeled the garment down her ivory shoulders.
Her chest against his face was creamy silk. He grazed across it gently, hoping his few hours of stubble wouldn’t prickle too harshly. He heard her breath sighing and could feel her heart race.
Writhing with his help, she drew her elbows clear of the tight dress to force it down from her pale, pink-tipped breasts. Watching them quiver free, Matt felt a velvet hand on the back of his neck. Alma’s other gloved hand clutched one breast in an erotic confection of white, pink and velvety black which she crammed up against his lips. He tasted one sweet bud, then the other in its turn.
His dinner jacket slid to the floor as they strove together. She clutched at him, groping with soft black fingertips to tug away his bowtie, cummerbund and shirtfront. He took charge, lifting her waist and undoing the last clasps of her gown. But the costly garment clung to the fullness of her hips. Not to tear it, she twisted artfully. Lifting her arms, she let him draw it up over her head, and in an instant wriggled free.
The silk chemise that remained was as nothing. He brushed it aside, only to pause at the wealth of beauty, nature and art before him—her slender limbs, shapely body, the lush curvature of hips and soft blonde nest of her lap. All were framed by the wicked black of dyed hair, elbow-length gloves, knee-high stockings and patent leather pumps. Before this delirious vision he reeled against a heady surging of alcohol, fevered blood, and the sea tides shifting underfoot.
* * *
Alma’s head swam, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She wasn’t weak but energized—eager and impatient for more of these delicious sensations, the pleasant shocks of closeness and intimacy. She wanted these moments not to end but go on, more intensely and urgently.
The warmth of Matt’s enfolding and the breathless crush of his embrace thrilled her. The tickle of his lips on her ear and the gentle rasp of his breathing wiped out all other sensations. She clutched to feel his reality, kissed to goad him into more passion, and squirmed to make their bodies touch everywhere possible. Each limb, each cell, each hair of her was alive and found a mate in him. This energy—this love—she’d never known it before and didn’t want it to end.
He had paused to come up for air. She gazed at him, feeling breathless with excitement, and even more with wonder at her own abandon. All the fear, frustration and doubt of recent years seemed to find a marvelous, sensuous release in Matt. Standing before her only half-clothed, he was more of a man than she’d yet seen. His hungry gaze, tousled head and strong, eager hands didn’t frighten or repel her. He seemed ready at any moment to topple onto her—and that bulge in his trousers must soon become painful. She was ready. And yet, fighting through the mists of intoxication and lust, she knew what she had to do.
He’d stopped. Had she been too forward, too brazen? In his present state it obviously didn’t matter. She must take the chance.
“Matt, darling, I have to get up.” Kicking off her shoes she arose, thrillingly aware of her nakedness and how the chemise barely slid to mask it. Matt swayed into her, his hands questing; but she slipped past him with a quick embrace and a kiss to his neck. He remained gentle, his body firm, his breath no more scented with alcohol than her own. He deserved her. Hadn’t he earned her?
Passing through the bedroom into the washroom, she found her metal case with the diaphragm. It was new. Her old one she’d thrown away, never intending to need it again. But Hildegard had said she must have one, like all of the girls, as part of a nurse’s readiness.
After relieving herself, she inserted it—trying not to think of past encounters with Jim, the whiskey breath and tobacco stink of his rutting bulk, in the pitch darkness that she’d always insisted on. And those vile attempts by the others, awful!
Here tonight already was more pleasure, more promise, more heaven with Matt. At what lay ahead, what could yet happen, a hot shiver of excitement coursed through her, sweeping away the past.
One more thing from her bag, a secret weapon she’d never meant to use, but saved: a filmy chiffon robe, all but transparent, ruffled at neck, wrists and knee. She laid aside the long black gloves, stockings and chemise. Having brought her to this promise of love, they’d served their purpose.
Still she must take care, or even be ready to resist. Passion and intoxication must not rule over good sense. Could it be true, as she’d read, that six in ten American wives suffered from a vile disease, gonorrhea? And countless more hapless mothers and babes, syphilis?
She had to be sure. Being a nurse should count for something.
When a woman sheds her clothes, she sheds her shame. Where had she heard that? As Alma moved to the lavatory door, the ship’s mild rolling caused soft chiffon to brush against her thighs, nipples and intimate parts, making her nudity more thrilling.
Matt sat on the bed in his briefs. At first she thought he was playing a musical instrument. But then she realized he was inflating something—a condom! Alma had learned that even the new rubber sheaths had defects. He was testing it to be sure it would protect him, and her, too, not just against disease but pregnancy.
In a passion of relief and thankfulness, she moved close. Kneeling down, she assisted him. Her nurse training was a help and she handled him with tenderness. His caution and responsibility were the greatest gifts that she could imagine.
Then in a mad surge of affection, she risked everything—and knew in a terrible moment of certainty, she’d lost him forever.
Yet love prevailed. Again he crushed her in his embrace, this time flesh to flesh, tongue to tongue, without barrier or restraint. His kiss ravished her rudely, alarmingly. If Boss Jim had tried this, their mouths would have been full of blood. But she gave in and gave back, trading intimacy for intimacy, invasion for intrusion. Again she felt possessed by the need to possess him, every fiber of her body throbbing in tune with his. Her lips, legs, arms clutched to draw him in, until finally they were joined.
The presence of his maleness inside her was a dynamo, a piston pumping electricity through her core. Her desperation matched his as their hot, moist friction became a searing fusion. She strove fiercely, building to heights of sensation she’d never known.
* * *
Before waiting resignedly outside the lavatory, Matt had gathered up their loose clothing from the drawing room and laid it on the far bed. To it he added his trousers, but retained his briefs. This Saloon Class heating was superb, driving out the sea’s chill.
The champagne had worn off, and there was no more. Just as well; he still might need his wits.
Hopefully their romantic enchantment would resume. She’d surprised him with her extreme ardor in the drawing room. He thought of other women he’d seen, but not known, the hard women of the street, the wild ones and later, broken and wilted ones, fallen to sickness or addiction. She wasn’t one of those, she couldn’t be. He didn’t know what Jim and his crew might have done to her, but there was still a strength here, and joyous innocence.
Was she safe for him? To be certain, he took a condom from his supply and tested it.
The washroom door swung open, its electric light dazzling. Through it came a vision, all of Alma’s charms outlined by the glow and revealed in filmy gauze. Barefoot she stood before him, wearing only her loose translucent robe and a loving smile.
By the bedroom light he saw that she’d renewed her lipstick—a softer pink, that she now moistened with dainty pink tongue-tip. Moving close, she bent forward over him on the bed. Her loose breasts swayed in chiffon, and her thighs brushed tantalizingly against his knees.
“I want to see all of you,” she said, undoing the button of his shorts. Deftly but not expertly she tugged them down, a delightful feeling, and whisked them off his legs.
He fumbled with the condom, trying to drag it onto his maleness, which was now almost as slack as the thin rubber.
“Here,” she murmured, “let me help.” Carefully with red-nailed fingertips, she re-rolled the sheath and leaned forward to apply it. By then, under her caressing touch, it slipped on more firmly.
With a sudden impulsive movement she bent down over him, pressed her lips against his cloaked penis, and kissed it.
Shocked, he looked down at her pink lip-prints on the back of the sagging sheath. He’d heard of this, a whore’s trick! That lovely face—how could he ever have guessed her base desires?
Gazing at her, he saw uncertainty, concern and—innocence. On a savage impulse of his own he lunged forward, seized her shoulders and returned her kiss forcefully, with deeply probing tongue.
It was her turn to stiffen in surprise. Still, she surrendered her soft mouth to his invasion. His perverse urge overcame hers, and became mutual as he drew her up, twisted and bore her backward onto the bed. He could feel that his manhood was no longer in retreat.
Lips, tongue, breasts, the magic funnel of her waist and spreading glory of hips, thighs, derrière—every part of her belonged to him. His fingers probed her soft wetness, eliciting gasps of pleasure as her red-nailed fingers plucked at his hardness. Relenting, he eased her backward and placed a firm pillow behind her neck, before pinning her with his entire weight. His swollen shaft soon found its place, to be dragged deeper by her eager clutching fingertips.
* * *
The dizzy lift of the party and its aftermath had faded into sleep, replaced by sensations even more pleasing, comforting and intoxicating. Alma felt no regrets, though she knew she’d done a complete turnabout, throwing aside all her resolutions of the previous day. She’d challenged herself, and won—but what had caused it? Even in the warm haze of contentment, she had to wonder.
Why, it was Matt, of course, this fine man who’d been so giving and forgiving, who’d aided and supported her. He’d shared so sincerely in her success, the evening’s musical novelty before the Broadway elite—just a fleeting moment, perhaps, but the dream of her girlhood. For that to be followed by this…marvel, the miracle of sexual completion! And somehow too a healing, a shaking off of everything that went before.
It was the evening itself, too, the social blossoming and the inspired company, a turning point that had to be memorialized and made part of one’s deepest being.
But even more, in a way, it was the ship. Sweet Lusitania, this wonderful gathering-place and transition-point, that brought so many different people together from so many lands, to create within its splendid realms true magic and excitement—and love! Alma could see why her parents had been so devoted to this kind of adventure. Now it was hers.
“You don’t think it’s wrong, what we’ve done?” she asked Matt as he stirred sleepily beside her.
“How could it be wrong? It’s the only possible thing, the one true thing.”
“Yes, you’re right, it is. But will we remember that by daylight? Can you possibly still respect me in the morning?”
“In the morning, if it ever comes—I hope it never does—but yes, I’ll respect you! I’ve learned to respect you tremendously, in so many ways—as a gentle nurse and divine singer. A very private secretary, and the greatest lover since Cleopatra—”
“Quiet, you.”
“Anyway, why worry about the future? We’re headed into—who knows what? How can we control it? The best we can do is to survive this madness, and try to end it. We only have right now, my love—and perhaps, just perhaps, a future.”
“Yes, but for now—”
“I am a bit worried about when the others finally come back,” he said. “Can we stay here together, do you think?”
“We can stay.”
“Winnie won’t mind?”
“No, she won’t mind. Flash won’t mind it either, I can promise you.”
“I don’t suppose he will. Mmm, shipboard romance, there’s nothing like it.”
“That’s enough, you!”